by David Weber
Sahndahl was tempted to follow him, but he suppressed the temptation easily. He doubted Mullygyn had been the only occupant of the guardroom just inside the doorway, and he wondered if it might not have been wiser to just go ahead and rush the place without warning anyone inside he was coming.
No, you were right the first time, he told himself. Too good a chance the girl or the boy’d get killed in the confusion, even if you got inside on the first rush. And if they really have figured out you’re coming, trying to “rush” a tower like this would be a good way to get half your men killed at the outset. So His thoughts broke off in an abrupt mental hiccup as someone else stepped out of the tower door. Not Mullygyn, and sure as hell not Earl Coris! The man in front of him was taller than either of them-a good two or three inches taller even than Captain Mahgail-with sapphire eyes, black hair, and a scarred cheek. Sahndahl had never seen him before in his life, which would have been cause enough for surprise in itself, but finding himself face-to-face with someone in the livery of the Charisian Imperial Guard hit him like a punch in the belly.
“I’m afraid Earl Coris and Sergeant Raimair are… occupied,” the impossible stranger said. “Perhaps I might be of assistance, Colonel?”
“Who… who-?” Sahndahl realized he sounded entirely too much like a stupefied owl, and he gave himself a sharp, tooth-rattling jerk.
“Captain Merlin Athrawes, Charisian Imperial Guard, at your service.” The man bowed, apparently blissfully unaware of the insanity of what he’d just said. “And I’m afraid, Colonel, that Prince Daivyn and Princess Irys have requested asylum in Tellesberg. It seems”-those blue eyes looked past the colonel and into the dumbstruck brown eyes of Father Gaisbyrt-“Vicar Zhaspahr has ordered that they be killed, much as he did their father, and they’d prefer to avoid that outcome. Undutiful of them, I know, but”-his smile could have frozen Lake Erdan in mid-summer-“I’m sure you can understand their viewpoint.”
“That’s… ridiculous,” Sahndahl managed, feeling his hand creep to the sword at his side.
“Oh, come now, Colonel!” Athrawes chided gently. “You know I’m telling you the truth. Clyntahn’s decided murdering Daivyn may destabilize Corisande again. Especially if he can blame it on Charis… again.”
Those blue eyes were even colder than his smile, a fragment of Sahndahl’s mind observed.
“Lies! Lies! ” Vandaik shouted suddenly from behind Sahndahl. “This man is an acknowledged heretic and blasphemer-an enemy of God Himself! How can you even consider the possibility he might be telling the truth?!”
“Ah, now there’s the problem, isn’t it, Father Gaisbyrt?” Athrawes asked, and the Schuelerite stiffened at the revelation that the Charisian knew his name. “And a bit of a problem for Father Zhames and Father Arthyr and Brother Bahldwyn and Brother Zhilbyrt, too, isn’t it?” the heretic continued, naming each of the inquisitors in turn. “Because you know they are considering it, don’t you, Father? Thanks to that butcher in Zion you serve, everyone’s considering it, aren’t they, Father?”
“Lies!” Vandaik screamed. “Yield now, heretic, or die!”
“Let me see.” Athrawes tilted his head to one side, eyes contemptuous. “Surrender, and be tortured to death later for Clyntahn’s amusement, or die now, seeing how many of his inquisitors-and their flunkies I’m afraid, Colonel,” he added, eyes flitting back to Sahndahl, “I can kill first. Let me see, let me see. Which one should I choose…?”
“Heretic bastard! ” Vandaik screamed. “Do your duty, Sahndahl! Seize him! Seize him and all the others, as well, or answer to Mother Church!”
“I-” Sahndahl half drew his sword, then froze as Athrawes waved an index finger at him like a chiding tutor. The Charisian Guardsman’s sheer force of will seemed to freeze all of Sahndahl’s men. It certainly froze the colonel himself!
“If you try to execute that order, or to seize Prince Daivyn or Princess Irys, or to prevent them in any way from leaving this castle of their own free will, Colonel, a lot of people are going to die.” There was no humor at all in Athrawes’ voice. “Most of them will be yours.” He looked very levelly into Sahndahl’s eyes. “I have no desire to kill any man simply because he has the misfortune to serve a corrupt and evil master, but the choice is yours. Stand aside, or try to take us. Live or die, Colonel. Make the choice.”
***
“He’s insane! ” Irys Daykyn whispered, watching from the third-floor window, listening to the conversation with Earl Coris’ arm around her shoulders. “My God, he’s out of his mind!”
“Maybe he is,” the earl replied, shaking his head, but there was something very like admiration in his tone. “Maybe he is, but, Langhorne, it feels good to hear someone take one of those sanctimonious pricks on in public!”
Irys’ head turned. She looked up at Coris’ profile, and her eyes widened as she saw the fierce, triumphant grin on her guardian’s face.
“You like him!” she said almost accusingly.
“Like him?” Coris cocked his head consideringly. “Maybe. I don’t know about that, Irys, but by God you’ve got to admire his style! ”
***
“That’s bold talk for one man alone standing in front of fifty,” Sahndahl replied at last.
“There’re good men enough standing behind me,” Athrawes said evenly, “and you’re standing in front of me. If you want to survive this night, Colonel, be somewhere else. Now.”
Sahndahl stared at him, ice crawling through his veins as he digested the total certitude in the Charisian’s voice and remembered all the fantastic tales about “ Seijin Merlin.” But the colonel was a veteran. He recognized tall tales and impossible legends when he heard them. And he was no coward. It was entirely possible Athrawes might kill him, especially at such a short range, but not even a seijin could defeat forty-five Royal Guardsmen plus the inquisitors with them.
And better to die cleanly fighting someone like Athrawes than answer to the Inquisition if the Prince or the Princess get away, a small, still voice said deep at his core.
“I thank you for the warning, Captain Athrawes,” he heard his voice say, “but I think not.” He drew a deep breath.
“Take them!”
***
Sahndahl’s sword came out of its sheath.
That, unfortunately, was the first-and last-thing that happened the way he’d planned, because Merlin Athrawes’ hands moved.
Phylyp Ahzgood, watching from the window above the tower door, hissed in disbelief. No one could move that quickly-no one! One instant the seijin ’s hands were at his side, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes locked with Colonel Sahndahl’s. The next instant there was a pistol in each hand, as if they’d magically materialized there and not been drawn from the holsters at his side.
And then they began to fire.
It was hopeless, of course. One man, with only two pistols, against fifty? Even if he was a crack shot who never missed, the most he could hope for would be to fell four of them before the others charged up the stairs and swarmed him under. But Merlin Athrawes seemed unaware of that, and the blinding brilliance of a muzzle flash ripped holes in Coris’ vision.
The seijin fired from the hip with both hands, and the measured “CRACK,” “CRACK,” “CRACK” of his fire pounded the ear like a hammer. Yet even as he fired, Coris realized something was wrong. There were no flashes from the pistols’ pans. No up-flash of igniting primer, no sparks as chipped flint struck the frizzen. There were only the long, stabbing flashes from the muzzles, more brilliant than ever against the night’s darkness as they spewed flame, smoke, and death.
And they went right on spewing all three of those things.
Impossible! Coris thought as the seijin fired his fifth shot. Then his sixth. His seventh! His eighth!
Sahndahl had been the first to fall. He sat at the top of the stairs, both hands pressing at the blood-gushing wound in his abdomen, head shaking in either disbelief or denial while his eyes glazed their way into death. Captain Mahgail screa
med in rage as his commander fell and charged the stairs, sword in hand. Behind him, forty-five more men hurled themselves towards the single figure in the blackened armor standing at their head.
But each time Merlin Athrawes squeezed one of those triggers, another man went down-screaming, unconscious, or dead- and he went right on firing.
Courage that might have brushed aside his fearsome reputation was no match for the drumbeat of death and destruction thundering and flashing from his hands. The cloud of gunsmoke was so dense they could scarcely even see him through it, but still he fired, each muzzle blast illuminating the cloud of smoke like Langhorne’s Rakurai, and the heavy bullets plowed through them like the sword of Chihiro himself. As their formation tightened to charge up the steps, some of those bullets tore through two or even three bodies, and King Zhames’ Guardsmen broke.
They fell back, stampeding into the darkness, and the Inquisitors who’d launched them gaped at the demonic apparition at the top of the stairs.
Merlin Athrawes had downed thirteen Delferahkan guardsmen with ten shots, and he raised his right hand deliberately.
“My regards to Vicar Zhaspahr, Father!” he called, even his deep voice sounding somehow high-pitched and frail after the thunder of so much gunfire. “He’ll be along shortly!” he added, and an eleventh thunderbolt leapt from the pistol. Gaisbyrt Vandaik was almost fifty yards from the tower stairs, but the heavy, soft lead bullet struck him squarely in the center of his chest and punched cleanly through his heart.
“And I haven’t forgotten you, Brother!” the seijin called, and Bahldwyn Gaimlyn squealed in sudden terror before the pistol in Merlin’s left hand ended his squeal forever. .
Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, and Sarman Mountains, Kingdom of Delferahk
Merlin stood on the front steps, shrouded in a cloud of powder smoke, slowly fraying on the breeze. He surveyed the body-littered courtyard with ice-cold blue eyes and holstered his left-hand pistol, then heard a sound behind him.
Human ears battered by that much gunfire would have been unable to hear it, but Merlin Athrawes’ ears weren’t human. He turned towards the soft noise and found himself facing Tobys Raimair. The ex-sergeant’s sword was drawn, his face tight, and his eyes were hard.
“I’m thinking all those tales about you being a demon or a wizard aren’t so far-fetched after all!” the sergeant grated.
“I can see where that might occur to you,” Merlin replied calmly. “On the other hand, there’s nothing at all demonic or magic about my pistols, Tobys.”
“Oh, aye, I can see that!” Raimair said caustically. “Why, just anyone could shoot for an hour or two out of one wee little gun like that!”
“No, not for an hour,” Merlin corrected in that same calm voice. “Just six shots, Tobys. Only six.”
“Six?!” Raimair glared at him. “Why not ten? Langhorne, why not thirty?! ”
“Because they wouldn’t fit into the cylinder,” Merlin told him, and Raimair looked down as he heard a metallic clicking sound. His sword never wavered, but his eyes widened as he realized the seijin ’s pistols weren’t like any other firearm he’d ever heard of. For one thing, they seemed to be made entirely out of steel, except for the wooden handgrips. For another, some sort of heavy cylinder had just come out of the center of the thing to rest in the palm of the seijin ’s left hand. It left a queer, squared-off gap or opening in the middle of the rest of the weapon, and Merlin held it up where he could see it.
“It’s actually a simple concept,” he said. “A friend of mine-I call him Owl-made it for me. He calls it a ‘revolver,’ because the central cylinder here”-he waved his left hand gently-“ revolves when you cock the hammer. If you look, you’ll see it has six holes drilled in it. Each of those is big enough to hold one charge of powder and one bullet. The bullets are a bit smaller than the ones most of the Guard’s pistols fire, but to make up for it, the charge is about a fourth again as large, so they hit a lot harder. And it doesn’t need a priming pan because a very clever Charisian officer-another friend of mine, named Mahndrayn-invented something called a ‘percussion cap’ that flashes over when you hit it with a hammer. If you look here,” he reversed the cylinder, showing Raimair the back end, which was solid but had six raised, odd-looking bumps of some sort, “you’ll see where the caps fit over the nipples here so the hammer can strike them as they rotate and each shot lines up with the barrel.” He shrugged. “It’s just a way to carry more firepower, Tobys, and I promise you it violates none of God’s laws. When we get to Tellesberg, you can discuss it directly with Father Paityr, our Intendant, if you like.”
Raimair held out his free hand, and Merlin smiled slightly as he dropped the cylinder into it. The sergeant turned it, held it up to one of the door lanterns in order to see it better, then raised it to his nose and sniffed the scent of burnt gunpowder. He lowered it again, looking down at it for several seconds, then drew a deep breath, lowered his sword, and handed it back over.
“I’m sure you know your own business best, Seijin,” he said, “but you might want to warn people before you do things like that. Could save yourself a peck of trouble… not to mention a sword in the ribs, now I think about it.”
“Tobys, you’re a good man,” Merlin told him, “and if you can get a sword into my ribs, I’ll figure I must have deserved it.”
Raimair looked at him suspiciously, obviously trying to figure out if he’d just been complimented or insulted, and Merlin smiled. Then he looked past the sergeant as Earl Coris appeared behind Raimair.
“That was certainly impressive,” the earl said just a little tartly. “Was it really necessary, though, Seijin Merlin? Once they stop running, they’ll spread the tale of your ‘demon weapons’ all over the Kingdom! If they might’ve had any trouble getting together the manpower to chase us before, they certainly won’t now-especially with two Inquisitors dead, to boot!”
“Finding the manpower was never going to be a problem, My Lord,” Merlin replied calmly, reaching into his belt pouch and extracting a cylinder identical to the one in Raimair’s hand, except that this one was still loaded and capped. He slipped it into the revolver frame and slid the central locking pin back into place to hold it. Then he holstered the reloaded weapon, drew its twin from the other holster, and replaced its cylinder, as well.
“The Inquisition can-and will-rouse the entire countryside,” he continued as he worked. “Whether or not I had any ‘demon weapons’ won’t matter a solitary damn as far as that’s concerned! But if you’ll notice, the entire Royal Guard has temporarily decamped. I figure they’ll be back shortly-whatever else they may be, they aren’t cowards, and as soon as they get over the shock, they’ll come back. They’ll be cautious, but they’ll come. In the meantime, however, we can get a bit of a head start. And it’s occurred to me that the best horses in the entire Grand Duchy of Talkyra are right here in King Zhames’ stables. I realize you have some nice ones waiting for you at that livery stable outside town, but I doubt they’re the equal of the ones in the royal stables. Not only that, but depriving our pursuers of horses that good strikes me as an excellent idea, as well. And while I’m thinking about things that might discourage or hamper pursuit, I think I’ll just take the opportunity while you and Tobys here go acquire our transportation to leave a few little… incendiary calling cards here and there around the castle. Places like, oh, the magazine, for example.”
He smiled beatifically and looked at Raimair.
“Do try to get them moving, Tobys,” he said. “Those Guardsmen may come back sooner than I thought, and I’d just as soon be on our way.”
He swept the stunned-looking earl a bow and headed down the stairs.
***
Irys Daykyn managed not to groan as she swung down out of the saddle. The sun was working its way towards evening overhead, although that was difficult to tell at the moment. The mature growth forest they were passing through had been only thinly invaded by imported terrestrial species, and even the towering
Safeholdian pines seemed small and dwarfed under the shadows of the titan oaks. Most of those titan oaks had probably been growing here since the Day of Creation itself, she thought. Some of them were as much as fifteen feet in diameter at the base, and each individual tree would probably have produced enough wood to build an entire war galleon. Even this early in the spring, they wove a solid, green canopy overhead, and the dense shade of their branches had almost completely choked out any underbrush. It was already dim, bordering on outright dark, under that twiggy roof, but at least the absence of undergrowth had allowed the fugitives to make excellent speed.
They’d maintained an alternating trot and walk for the last twenty-two hours, pausing only to rest the horses occasionally… or to swap their saddles to fresh mounts. Merlin had been right about that, she reflected. Not only had King Zhames’ stables had the best horses available, but there’d been enough of them to provide each member of their party with no less than three mounts apiece. Not all were equally good, but even the worst was well above average, and the spare mounts had allowed Merlin to set a pace they could never have maintained with only a single horse each.
And he had-oh, but he had! Irys was grateful her father had had scant patience with the more scandalized ladies of Manchyr who’d insisted his daughter had to ride sidesaddle. She would have been even more grateful if she’d been able to stay in practice after her arrival here in Delferahk. Although, to be fair, she’d thought she had stayed in practice… until she’d spent the better part of an entire day in the saddle.
But by her estimate, they’d traveled almost eighty miles-something closer to sixty, probably, as a wyvern might have flown-and they’d left the foothills of the Sunthorns three hours ago. Which meant they still had somewhere around another hundred and fifty miles-again, in that mythical straight line-to go.